


All For Love

by AraSigyrn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU ending for A Scandal in Belgravia where John is helpful and Sherlock makes a mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All For Love

Mycroft's fond imaginings aside, Sherlock couldn't possibly have managed the liberation of Irene Adler alone. He was the one who tracked her movements certainly and without his encyclopaedic knowledge of extremist terrorists, that knowledge would have been useless.

Actually tracking the cell, acquiring the on-the-ground intel and coming up with a plan of attack that they all survive? Well, Sherlock really would be lost without his blogger.

So, when Sherlock and Irene finally reach the purloined HMV (a gift from a Yank who owed John several favours) and Sherlock turns to share his elation with John only to find the space normally occupied by his flatmate empty...well, Sherlock is baffled. John in combat is efficiency personified and the idea that any of the cell (young, nervous and freshly recruited from various colleges) could pose any risk to John is enough to make Sherlock bark laughter in the eerily still night.

Irene rifles through the glove compartment which Sherlock had neglected to uncover on the drive out and turns up a matching pair of false passports with their photographs in the name of Mr and Mrs Hilton Cubitt. Irene attempts to burden the simple practicality with innuendo but Sherlock focuses on the deliberation of the act.

It's fine, then. All fine.

He did not know of the glove compartment. John must have known it existed ergo the passports were put here by John. If there is no third passport, then John knew it would be just Sherlock and Irene. So John is taking another route home which is...fine. Naturally. Sound tactical planning. Well done, John.

Sherlock looks back out into the dead darkness behind and shivers in the chill wind. He and Irene might be the only people on the whole planet.

"Coming, lover?" Irene calls from the passenger seat. She sounds perplexed by his hesitation and Sherlock's mind obligingly flashes up a three-dimensional interpretation of the disposition of her rescue. John had left his gun with Sherlock, preferring to rely on the more ...informal methods in his arsenal. It had been common sense to leave John to handle the perimeter and if that leaves Sherlock as the dashing knight in shoddy black robes? Well, he won't deny a sense of gratification.

Irene doesn't know John was there. Sherlock frowns as he starts the car and steps on the accelerator, mentally reviewing the whole affair. He skips through the London parts, sparing a moment to note that if he were a more cautious man, he would not have provoked a Captain with SAS experience into attacking him. He thinks over every decision John made and comes to an unsettling conclusion.

Irene doesn't know John was there because John made sure she wouldn't know.

Sherlock contemplates turning back but Irene strips away the last of her robes and flashes him a brilliant smile.

"So, go on then," she laughs. "Tell me how you managed that?"

"Infantile," Sherlock says derisively. "The only way your destination could have been more obvious would have required hiring a town crier or a pyrotechnics display."

He forgets his doubts and the niggling question of John in the self-indulgent pleasure of an appreciative audience. Irene is charming company and Sherlock so rarely has the chance to enjoy a conversation with an intellectual equal. She isn't even interested in the mechanics of her rescue which means Sherlock doesn't need to disabuse her of the idea that he was working alone. She reaches out to cover his hand on the steering wheel and smiles at him and it's all fine.

Sherlock's first clue that it's not all fine comes when they reach the airport three days later, rumpled and dusty. Adler's smile when they approach the ticket desk is utterly false but nonetheless brilliant and her grip on his elbow is so tight that she breaks one of the two intact nails she has retained.

The 'honeymoon' is, as John would say, most definitely over.

Chanel No.5 in sufficient amounts ceases to be perfume and becomes olfactory poison. The mysteries of menstruation are no longer mysterious enough and if Sherlock is obliged to enter one more clothes shop then he will not be held responsible for his actions. An impulse to arson is becoming harder to ignore and Sherlock looks around expectantly for John.

He's never understood the need to share one's disconcerting experiences in the company of a woman with a rational and partisan third party before but he is already looking forward to seeing John's face crease up in amusement.  John will struggle not to giggle and give Sherlock the critical information to rationalize Adler's bewildering behaviour and never speak of it to anyone else. That he will confirm the worst of John's suspicions regarding his sexual experience is, to Sherlock, a necessary price.

He does not think John will be cruel about it but Sherlock does not get a chance to test this hypothesis. John is not on their flight. Every seat is full and Sherlock spends nearly seven-eighths of the flight pacing the aisles but the rows remain filled with mundane, utterly pedestrian passengers. Adler, pointedly engrossed in the stewardess, ignores him.

It's fine.

John has taken an earlier flight, no doubt. After all, John was not hindered by the blasted woman. He will be writing up the Case of the Woman back in Baker Street and pre-emptively handling Ms Hudson and Lestrade. Clearly.

Sherlock sprints for the taxi rank as soon as he is physically capable of extricating himself from the tedium of HM Customs. He does not object when Adler joins him nor does he slow for her. He yearns towards Baker Street and the comfortable familiarity of John's presence. He drums his fingers on his leg and deliberately angles his face away from her. He will have to assist her back to her life or a reasonably safe facsimile thereof, Sherlock is fair enough to acknowledge that but he is bored.

Adler isn't simply an intellectual equal; she is very probably the closest thing to a peer that Sherlock possesses (aside from Mycroft) and as such, is utterly boring.

Sherlock's own eccentricities become harder to overlook when he's on the receiving end and oh, won't John laugh to hear that admission. Sitting in the slowest taxi in all of London and working out how much faster he could arrive if he just ran the rest of the way, rain be damned, Sherlock thinks John's laughter might be worth the embarrassment of the admission. He smiles to himself at the thought.

"You know, men who've spent a long weekend with me don't usually smile like that," Adler observes. "You're bad for my reputation, Mr Holmes."

"Don't be childish," Sherlock's dismissal is distracted. "Your flirtation was never intended to be serious. If you hadn't wanted to escape Moriarty, you'd never have gone to such trouble over it."

"You're sure about that, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock pauses and turns to look at her. Adler's expression is fixed in a smile that shows her teeth and he flicks a glance over her, effortlessly lifting the proof of his deductions from her body language.

"Please. As you told John, your sexual appetites are for women, not men; I am self-evidently male and comfortable identifying as such. You enjoy control of your partner and the portions of your life that are shared but you like a partner who will make you work for that control; I don't take orders. I don't share. What I consider mine is mine entirely. I would not be able to tolerate sharing my partner with others, regardless of how 'nonsexual'," Sherlock's lip curls. "Such activities are considered. You are manifestly intelligent enough to recognize that any romantic or sexual relationship between us would be disastrous," he pauses to breathe. "Even if you hadn't been married and fully committed to your assistant."

Adler's smile doesn't soften but she relaxes a little.

"I admire you," Sherlock admits. "You are, as I said, highly intelligent and I have enjoyed this little exchange. You clearly have considerable expertise in your field, not to mention accrued experience that surpasses my own and I have been fascinated. Mistaking that fascination for something as crude as sexual attraction is beneath you. I despise people who condescend to me."

There is silence as the taxi driver stops for a light that is clearly still amber and Sherlock seethes. He wants to be home. He wants to be able to sleep in his own bed. He wants to wake up tomorrow to a suitably grisly crime filled with delicious details. He wants a long dinner at Angelo's with John where they can discuss the concluded case in detail. He wants to talk to John. He wants to know that Moriarty hasn't restarted their little game and he wants the blasted taxi to _move_!

"Well," Irene says at last. "That's me told then."

She gathers up her bags and smiles more sincerely at him. "And on that happy note, I believe this is my stop."

Sherlock looks out the window and sees a familiar sedan in silhouette on the far side of the street. Irene kisses his cheek and her smile turns impish. "Don't pout. Once was more than enough with that brother of yours. And if you want me, well..."

This time, she kisses Sherlock properly and he freezes in place, frantically cataloguing the sensation. "You have my number."

She opens the door and is gone in splash of grey London rain. The taxi driver doesn't even notice. Sherlock twists around and sees the door of the sedan opening but the taxi finally pulls away and the scene is lost. Sherlock settles back into his seat and touches his lips experimentally. He isn't certain what was supposed to happen in the wake of such a kiss but his own reaction is certainly that of relief.

When the taxi finally turns into Baker Street, Sherlock's relief sours almost immediately.

Mycroft is standing on the pavement, umbrella and all, looking almost surprised. The shift in his micro-expressions is unmistakable and disconcerting. His brother looks over Sherlock's shoulder as he emerges from his taxi and frowns.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"Nothing," Mycroft's expression settles into the bland smile that makes Sherlock long to punch him square in the face. "I merely expected that the good Doctor had accompanied you on this mysterious trip. There were some trivial matters that I wished to discuss with him and he hasn't been answering his phone. You don't happen to know when he'll be back, I suppose?"

Sherlock's heart sinks.


End file.
